


catastrophic, arterial, doomed

by Otherworldliness



Category: Emmerdale
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Also the tags makes this seem worse than it is, Depression, Eventual Smut, Fluff and Angst, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Sexism, Poetry, They're both assholes, no one dies, really it's just robron arguing about poems
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-01
Updated: 2020-03-15
Packaged: 2020-06-02 07:52:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19437124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Otherworldliness/pseuds/Otherworldliness
Summary: It's 1957. Aaron Dingle is an aspiring poet who can't seem to write about anything other than himself, while that seems to be the only thing the already popular and successful poet, Robert Sugden, can't write about. The two of them clash in more than just their different styles of poetry, and with both of them sporting pasts that make them standoffish and cruel it's a wonder if the two of them will ever get on.Very loosely based on Sylvia Plath and Ted Hughes.





	1. Stanza 1, part 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be one long fic, but I almost got to a 7k word count without the story really even starting and wanted to post this to see if anyone actually liked it before churning the whole thing out.  
> If you read the tags you'll be fine.  
> Also Aaron vaguely masturbates if that's not your thing.  
> Fic title from Red by Ted Hughes.

_No novice_

_In those elaborate rituals_

_Which allay the malice_

_Of knotted table and crooked chair_

It was like a ballet dancer – the way in which the woman moved across the carpet.

Not that she was in any sense graceful. In fact, in the minute or two that she had been moving she'd almost fallen over twice; her arms flailing in the air wildly like a goose in the rain. No, her movements weren't graceful, or elegant, or even pretty. It was her _feet_ that brought the thought – – pointed like a knifes edge and seemingly just as dangerous. As she walked across the carpet she kept them raised up high, leaving as small amount of the floor touched by her as possible. It was the feet of a ballet dancer.

Or the feet of a bird.

_Footing sallow as a mouse_

_Between the cabbage-roses_

_Which are slowly opening their furred petals_

There were birds on the carpet, too. Aaron didn't know much about birds, but he'd seen hummingbirds before; most likely one had been brought in for Paddy to look at or, even likelier, Liv had found one once, dead on a road side.

Regardless of _how_ , they were hummingbirds. The lady, woman, girl seemed to be avoiding them, making sure her bird feet were placed right in the gaps between each one as she went. As if stepping on them would squash them, breaking their bones like egg shells. And she did this every day, just before dinner would be called, walk carefully from her chair to the carpet then raise her feet and _dance_ over them.

Sometimes he wondered if it was a simple habit. Other times he thought she might be damned if she failed, dragged down into hell right through the carpet. Most of the time he didn't really care at all.

_She can see in the nick of time_

_How perilous needles grain the floorboards_

“Mr. Dingle?”

_She edges with wary breath,_

_Fending off jag and tooth,_

“As discussed, Mr. Barton is waiting in the foyer to collect you. You'll both be required to sign documents confirming consent to your release.”

_She lifts one webbed foot after the other_

_Into the still, sultry weather_

“Did you hear me, Sir? You're going home.”

_Of the patients' dinning room._

Cracking an eye open, he watched the sunlight run underneath the curtains. The way it seemed to peak out, as if the curtain couldn’t hold the day back any longer, felt almost like a threat. Aaron laid there for a minute and kept watch of it, waiting to see if the light would blow through and strike him down. After a while, it became clear that it wasn’t going to. Aaron couldn’t decide if the drop in his chest was relief.

Behind his door, he could hear someone pottering around in the kitchen; clanging pans and plates. Adam, probably, getting ready before a lecture. He sighed and bit back a groan, rolling from his side onto his back and running a hand through his hair. In a few moments, he knew that his room mate was going to open that bedroom door and force him up, maybe throwing him some toast and offers of walking with him to the bus stop for good measure. The thought of it made him turn his head as far away from the window as he could manage, forcing his eyes shut because if he couldn’t see it then maybe the day would go away, vanish into thin air and leave him in nothingness.

Safely hiding behind his own eyelids, he tried to remember the day before. The burning in his lower abdomen and the chaffing on his hips told him he still had a belt on, probably meaning that he hadn’t taken any of his day clothes off, then. He wondered what state he’d been in when he’d gotten home. There wasn’t a headache growing or nausea blooming, so it was safe to assume that he hadn’t been drinking – this time.

“Aaron!” Adam, as expected, called out. “If you’re not up and showered in the next thirty minutes then you’re going to be late!”

Groaning again, he attempted to nestle himself further into bed. Sometimes it was easier if he just did what he was supposed to do, to not give Adam a reason to ring his Mother, but today was looking like it was going to be a Bad Day, and Aaron didn’t have much desire to please on a Bad Day. Adam kept calling him as he laid there, the promises of what he’d do if Aaron got up becoming more and more fantastical as the seconds went by. In the end, it was the phantom footsteps of his friend coming down the hall that forced him into action, rolling slowly out of bed and adjusting his shirt just before Adam came barging in.

“ _Aaron_ \- oh.” He stopped, undoubtedly analysing the disarray of Aaron’s appearance. “You should’ve called back if you were awake.”

Adam Barton was a Business and Economics student, but you wouldn't have known it by looking at him. He was very large, larger than Aaron by a mile, and very Northern; you could hear it in the accent that he never tried to hide, smell the muck on him. Aaron had tried to ignore him during the first year, despite their families knowing each other, tried to disassociate from that part of himself. But it had turned out that it was easier to hide when you had someone to hide behind, easier to take the label of _country boy_ away if it was going to someone else.

It had also turned out that he quite liked the fellow. And that there was a lot more that Adam could help him conceal.

“’M leaving now,” he said gruffly, taking a comb from the side and briskly giving his hair a once over. “Don’t expect me back before sundown.”

“Are you not going to eat something?” Adam persisted. “Or at least shower?”

Swiftly, he gathered his things without sparing a glance for his friend. “If I leave now, I can get breakfast in town. And only one of us stink, Adam, and that one of us is _not_ me.”

“Ha, ha,” he spat, but Aaron could feel the worry coming off him like heat emitting from a furnace. “You know, if you want me to I can always-”

“Adam, don’t,” he warned. “Just... I’ll have to start functioning by myself at some point, you know that don't you?”

For a moment, Adam just looked him over again, as if he was trying to decide if that was even a possibility. (Aaron didn’t particularly believe it would happen either, but he knew he had to at least entertain the option.)

“I _know_ that you’re strong, and that you can get through anything if you wanted to,” he said eventually. “But I was also there last time. And I also know what this time of year does to you.”

This time of year – _summer_. With it's short shirt sleeves and lovers on the streets, parading their joy around in a way so careless it made Aaron's stomach hurt and his vision red.

It was also the end of the school year, and all the _unrelenting_ happiness that came with it.

And the anniversary of... well.

“I'll be alright,” he said, dismissive. “I got through it all last year.”

Adam made a vague sound. Aaron decided to take it as an agreement.

“Right then,” Aaron said, giving Adam a firm slap on the shoulder. “I'll see you later.”

Aaron was about to remove his hand, but Adam put his own on top of it; keeping it there. “Can you promise me that you'll actually go?”

Aaron scoffed, “It's my last before the summer. Of course I'll go.”

Aaron didn't go to the lecture.

Granted, he hadn't been going to lectures for the past month, so he came to the educated decision that missing one more wouldn't kill him. Instead he went to a park nearby and sat on a bench, watching people go about their days as he held his notebook open on his lap and waited for the right person to pass him.

His counsellors and mentors were always telling him that he didn't write enough about other people. There was nothing wrong with writing about yourself, apparently, as long as the poetry didn't become too personal, too _self indulgent_ , to be understood. Poetry was supposed to be like peering through a large, glass window, but Aaron's was like staring at four brick walls that were locked up by a door only he had the key to. Because writing a poem about the inside of Aaron's mind was all well and good, but nobody else would understand a word of it, would they? Only he had been in his own mind.

But sometimes he didn't care if people understood his poetry. And that was a dangerous thought, one that he needed to keep locked away, prevent from becoming reality. He had too much to lose.

So sometimes, when he missed lectures, he'd try and write about a stranger. Just one. Or a flower, or a tree, or a dog, anything that would prove to them that he could – _would_ – be a good poet.

On the other side of the park, a man was walking his dog. Across from him, an elderly couple were sat on a bench feeding some pigeons. Children were running rampant on a nearby field. Further still, a man with slicked back hair was leaning against a lamp post, reading a copy of _The Daily Mirror._

Aaron wondered what he might write about them all. If he would compare the man and dog, or write about them separately. If he would use the elderly couple and the pigeons in an image of the old feeding the new; creating a cycle of consumption. Maybe the children were scurrying like ants. Maybe the man reading the tabloid enjoyed gossip, and had a mouth the size of Manchester.

But when it came to writing any of this down he froze, mind breaking like a motorist. All he could do was tap his pen against the page in a feverish tempo as he looked on, lost, around the park.

Because this was the issue: Aaron _hated_ writing about other people.

“Are you writing a song?” came a voice from beside him, nearly sending Aaron's bones through his skin.

He was about to turn around and show them exactly how he felt about being spoken to by strangers, but stopped himself when he came face to face with a nicely dressed man. The kind of man that could very easily get him sent to prison.

“What?” he spluttered, nearly choking on it. Then, when he remembered he'd been asked a question, huffed, “ _No_.”

“Thank God for that,” the man laughed, the sound making Aaron's stomach flip in ways he didn't like. “Every time I thought you might be getting into a rhythm with that thing, it would go back to sounding like African war drums. Not exactly something they'd play on _The Light Programme_.”

Being bold and brazen was something that Aaron would never understand, but this man certainly looked the type for it; dressed to the nines in a well-fitted maroon suit that made his blond hair shine brighter. Rich folk, or at least all of the ones Aaron had ever met, were usually like this: ready to do anything they wanted whenever they wanted. Everyone else must have looked like insects to them.

It was a shame then, Aaron thought – before he could stop himself, make himself think or pause – that the man was beautiful.

He'd already been staring too long.

“I'm sorry, Sir, but can I help you?”

“Possibly.” He ran his eyes over Aaron, settling his stare on the empty notebook. It took everything he had not to flinch. “Do you usually come here when you want to write?”

Aaron closed the notebook, frowning. “I don't see how that's any of your business.”

“See, I come here often,” he continued, ignoring him, “whenever I need inspiration. If you _were_ writing, of course.”

“I was,” Aaron said slowly. “Or I would've been, if you hadn't interrupted me.”

That earned him another laugh. “There was nothing to interrupt! I had been watching you for a good five minutes before I spoke to you, and in that time you only stared into space.”

Normally, Aaron would've snapped at a comment like that, the beginnings of anger building inside of him. But instead the back of his neck flushed red as he turned his head away from him, the mere sight of the man sending shocks through his body. Aaron knew what it was, of course he did, but for his own sake he pretended not to know that the reason why he had the sudden need to impress was because of the sparkle in his eyes.

“Maybe I was just looking for something to write about.”

“Surely that's the easiest part,” the man exclaimed, grinning so brightly that Aaron had to look away again. “I've usually been inspired three times before I've even gotten out of bed in the morning.”

Aaron scoffed, “It must be lovely to be you.”

“It is, quite,” he said smugly, and Aaron, stupidly, decided he liked the way his voice sounded. “So come on then, what do you normally write about? Flowers? Trees? Cats?” Aaron rolled his eyes as he pressed on, raising an eyebrow, “ _Women_?”

The suggestion felt like a bullet to the chest.

His heart quickened and his hands began to sweat as all too quickly the realisation of what he was doing bloomed like a thorn: allowing himself to be played with by a man because he thought he was pretty. Because he enjoyed the attention. Because he'd forgotten who he was, and where he was.

And had put himself in danger.

In the blink of an eye he had snapped his notebook shut, throwing it into his satchel. 

“What are you doing?” the man asked, but this was Aaron's turn to ignore him.

As he walked down the street he heard the stranger calling after him, had earlier felt him brush a hand against his back as he'd stood; desperately trying to stop him. And underneath his panic there was guilt, berating him and punishing him, but stronger than both was fear, fuelling his legs as they moved along the pavement.

All he could do was keep walking.

By the time Adam came home, Aaron was already drunk.

And aroused. When he heard the front door open he shifted his hips slightly, feeling the way his blood turned into gold as the movement caused friction.

Yeah, definitely aroused.

“Aaron!” his friend called gleefully when he saw him on the sofa. “I thought you said you'd be home late again?”

_Huh_. Aaron had thought it had been dark when he got in, but a quick glance to the window confirmed it was still light out. The sky must've been playing tricks on him again.

“Aaron?” Adam asked, the sound of keys clicking and shoes and coats and bags thumping as they hit the floor making Aaron's brain feel like it was about to burst. “Are you awake, mate?”

All he could do was groan. The sound must have alarmed his friend, because in the blink of an eye he was crouched in front of him, a bottle in his hands.

“ _Jesus_ , how much have you had to drink?” he asked, and Aaron woozily tried to focus his gaze, to look at what Adam was showing him, but it was as if the room was filled with mist. It took several blinks to even see that the bottle was empty; a thousand more to read that there had been Whiskey in it.

Right. He remembered.

“S'fine,” he slurred, trying and failing to stand. “I only – I only had a lil'”

But Adam didn't believe that one bit. “You know we don't keep alcohol here anymore. The only way you could've got this is by buying it yourself, and last time I checked they don't sell large bottles with small amounts of drink in 'em!”

Weakly, he said, “Maybe I poured it down the drain.”

Adam snorted, but the furrow in his brow told Aaron he was angrier than he was letting on. “If you did then that's a massive waste of money.”

Aaron watched as Adam stood up, heavily setting the bottle down on the table before walking away from him. If he had been in a clearer mind he might've panicked, but soon he heard the light sound of water running and just as soon after saw a pint glass being pressed into his face.

“Go on then,” Adam said, wrapping a hand around Aaron's head to keep it upright. “Get this down ya.”

Slowly Aaron let the water into his mouth in gentle sips, the drink putting out fires he hadn't even known were alight inside his throat. He drank until the glass was half empty; Adam taking the drink away from him and setting it next to the Whiskey bottle before slumping himself next to Aaron, sighing.

And Aaron may still have been drunk, but he knew what disappointment sounded like. There were many things, feelings, that Aaron hated, but this – making the people he cared about look at him like that – must have been the worst. Because it was the one thing he never seemed to be able to stop doing.

Neither of them knew what to say for a while. Aaron took the time in silence to glance out of their window, where a bird was perched on the tree by their windowsill and chirping happily. As the bird sang, some distant car started blaring it's horn; drowning it out. It was the sort of thing his mentors would've liked him to write a poem about.

If he only knew how.

“Tell me about your day,” Aaron said eventually, trying to be nice, trying to steer the conversation away from himself, trying to ignore the way his thoughts kept circling back to the man in the park.

He wasn't looking, but he could feel Adam's eyes on him; stern and worried. “You're not gonna be able to distract me that easily, ya know.” Aaron huffed, drawing into himself. “I've told you again and again to tell me if you start to struggle. I told you _this morning_ that I knew that this time of year can be hard for ya, then you come home and-”

“Maybe I just wanted to have a bloody drink! I didn't realise that was a crime.”

“It's not,” Adam said, shaking his head. “But not for you. Not after everything that happened.”

Bile rose in the back of his throat. He _hated_ anything to do with that time, hated talking about it, thinking about, hearing about it. He could barely stand to be in the same room as the poems he'd written at the time, even though he'd kept them all locked up in a box that he stashed in the back of his wardrobe, never to be let out or seen again. It was better that way, if the whole ordeal was forgotten about. It was why Aaron had stopped going to therapy, why he left the house before Adam could ask him how he was feeling. Aaron had quickly discovered that there was no such thing as _moving on_ , all he could do was forget.

“I'm not going to do any of that again,” he said, a bad taste filling his mouth. “I had a bad day and wanted to have a drink, alright? It's not like I was about to...” He couldn't finish, but they both knew what he meant.

“I know.” He sighed again. “I only nag you so much because I care about you.”

He knew. And that was the worst part, really.

“So,” Aaron said, trying to make his voice lighter. “Your day?”

Luckily it made Adam give a short laugh, the tension between them starting to slip. “There's nothing to tell. It was boring, really.”

“Come on, just one thing,” he pressed. “Anything.”

Adam considered this, scrunching his face up in thought. “Well, I suppose,” he coughed, suddenly embarrassed, “that I may have met a girl today.”

His stomach did a familiar clench, but Aaron ignored it. “You meet girls every day,” he tried to joke.

“Not ones like this.” He said it so wistfully. So full of reverence. It felt like a kick to the face. “Do you remember that Café I took us to a couple of times back in January? The one you hated because the table cloths had frills in them and the napkins were folded into flowers?”

He did. “I didn't hate it _because_ of those things, I hated it because they felt the _need_ for them. No ones going to buy their lunch from them just to see the rose-shaped napkins. It's a waste of time.”

Really, it was the display of femininity that Aaron hated. Women were allowed to have all of that, the frills and the flower-shaped napkins, but Aaron would rather die than be associated with any of it. To have people think that he had anything in common with women.

Adam gave him a playful nudge. “She works there. Bakes their cakes, apparently. I only went in there for a cuppa and ended up buying three slices of chocolate cake to force her to talk to me.”

“Muppet,” he teased. “Does she have a name?”

“Victoria. I may have joked that it was like the sponge, but I don't think she found it very funny.”

They both laughed. The water must have finally started circulating his body, as his eyes felt clearer and his brain felt sharper. “Will you attempt to see her again, or is she going to fade into the background with all the other faceless girls you've fancied?”

“There's nothing faceless about her, mate. She's got the prettiest face I've ever seen – and the blondest hair, too,” he added. All Aaron wanted then was to tell Adam about the blond he'd met that day. To tell him how attractive he'd thought he was, how, even though they'd barely spoken, the man had left him ruffled and ragged. How he'd so desperately wanted to drink to forget him, but had only ended up thinking about him more and more – until he was out of it and hard in broad daylight.

But he couldn't. He never would be able to, no matter how much he knew that Adam suspected that he wasn't normal.

Suddenly, he wished he hadn't drank all the Whiskey when he did. He really could've used some.

“That's great, Adam,” he forced out. “I'm glad you've found someone.”

Adam hummed. “We'll see, anyway. Think she thought I was the most annoying man alive.”

Aaron wondered what the stranger had thought of him. Probably nothing good, after how he'd ran away.

“It's better than hate, I s'pose.”

Adam hummed again. “Did you write anything today?”

Somewhere in their flat, his satchel was on the floor, having been thrown carelessly when Aaron had gotten in. Inside of it, the notebook was still there; hopelessly empty.

“No,” he said heavily. “No, I didn't.”

Two years ago, Aaron had drove his car over a bridge and into a quarry.

He'd intended to die. For water to fill his body, his brain, his lungs, until he was finally completely full, never to feel empty ever again.

Six months before that, Jackson Walsh had died in a car crash; his body blown to smithereens by the impact.

Three years before that, his Father had died of cancer.

Now, Aaron knew he would never tell a soul why the three incidents were related.

The news papers and radio stations were taking over the planet, Aaron was sure of it. They'd been blaring the news all over the place all day, and everyone Aaron had come across had been talking about it. All because England were testing some bomb, one they were saying was going to make the country even more powerful than it had been before. One that would stop something like the Blitz ever happening again. 

Personally, Aaron didn't know what all the fuss was about. They'd made bombs before, tested them too, ones just as big as this. Aaron even remembered the last big one. He'd only been a teenager at the time, no more than fifteen, but he could still recall the amazement in his Mum's voice when she'd spoken about it; the fear in Paddy's. They'd all said the same thing then: that this bomb was going to change the way wars were fought forever.

Aaron still found it hard to care. America had already made them, or so they were saying. Russia too. As far as Aaron could see, they were just trying to catch up.

That didn't stop everyone in the whole bleeding country from talking about it, though.

Everyone except Adam Barton.

“How do I look?” the man in question asked, running hands through his hair while using a closed shop window as a mirror. Usually Aaron would be eager to reassure his friend, but this was the third time Adam had asked him since leaving the flat – and Aaron had already been bored the first time.

“You look fine,” he mumbled half-heartedly. Honestly, he hadn't looked at Adam much at all; far more occupied by the newspapers people were carrying around. He found it amusing that everyone cared so much, they wouldn't any other day over any other thing.

Maybe he could write a poem about that.

“Are you sure?” came Adam again.

“It's not like this is going to be the first time she's ever seen you,” Aaron pointed out, still watching. And it certainly wouldn't be, this was the second time Adam had dragged him to the Café this week.

He heard Adam make an offended sound. “Yes, _but_ – it's important to make her think I look good on any day.”

“Shouldn't that be something she thinks anyway? If she's the one 'n all.”

Adam made a ' _psssh_ ' noise as Aaron took a look at him, his brown hair artfully messed up and his clothes perfectly straightened out. There had been a time when Aaron had thought that there was no one in the world better looking than he was.

But that was before.

“Are you sure you're not going to come in with me?” he asked, his voice full of nerves. “I could use someone to tell me when I'm being an idiot.”

“Adam, you're being an idiot.” Aaron laughed loudly when his friend punched him in the arm. “It'll be fine! I barely said a word when I was there last time anyway, it'll be easier if I'm not there.”

His lack of speech may have had more to do with the pink roses that had been put into vases on every table than anything else, but Adam didn't need to know that.

“If you're sure,” Adam said, looking down at himself. “Where will you be while I'm in there?”

“I was thinking of going to the park near that American-style restaurant you like. Might try to write.” _Try_ being the key term. “Will you meet me there after she kicks you out?”

Adam rolled his eyes and gave him a shove. “I'll see you there.”

Aaron watched as Adam crossed the street, giving him a salute before walking into the Café. Chuckling to himself, Aaron pressed his hands into his trouser pockets and started the short, five minute walk to the park. 

It wasn't the same one as last time, of course. Aaron didn't think he could stomach it, not when he knew that the man frequently visited there. It was strange, the first day after The Incident, as he was now calling it, he'd felt more guilty than anything. He'd spent the day imagining himself meeting him again and apologising for running away, for acting crazy. He'd imagined that he might attempt to strike up a friendship, since the other students in his lectures didn't seem to like him much and it would've been nice to have a friend that understood what it was like to write. But the second day he'd awoken from a dream he couldn't remember while achingly, gut-wrenchingly hard. He hadn't felt attraction like this to a real man – someone he could actually see, hear, touch, _fee_ l – in years, having thought the ability had been pried out of him, but now that he did the feeling of it seemed to follow him everywhere. In his cold morning shower, to the supermarket, at his desk when he tried to revise. There was no way that day wouldn't have ended like this: Aaron, shaking and sweating and trembling, a hand around himself as he imagined how his hair would've felt under his hands. He'd needed a drink again when he was done, but he wasn't so stupid this time. He bought a cigar instead, waiting until it was dark until lighting it up and feeling fire fly down his throat.

But by day four there had been none of that. No arousal, or guilt, or even the shame he'd felt when he'd come. No, all that was left was pure _anger_ ; burning him up like the cigar. Anger at the man, anger at himself, because he had been absolutely nothing special, had he? He'd been annoying and intrusive and arrogant and Aaron had no clue why he was so bothered by him – and that was the worst part, the thing that made him shake he was so angry – there was no _reason_ for any of it. And he had always been so careful in managing how he reacted to men, even at a young age he'd never even allowed himself to so much as notice a man was good looking until he'd been given some sort of go-ahead (apart from with Adam, but he was _Adam_ and didn't count). So it was understandable that he was this angry, since nothing had happened to leave Aaron feeling like this. Nothing at all.

And he'd stayed angry all week. Just yesterday he burnt all the poems he'd attempted to write on that second day, all of them either about burning or drowning or being stabbed with a knife you'd use at the dinner table, blunt and forceful on human skin. Even now, as he sat at a different bench in a different park, just the site of another man's blond hair made his hands clench until his knuckles were white. It was safe to say that he wouldn't be getting over this very quickly.

“Aaron-!”

“What-” he turned, startled and ready to fight, just to see Adam standing in front of him. “ _Jesus. Christ_. Adam, you can't sneak up on people like that!”

Adam just snickered and sat down beside him. “I wasn't trying to scare ya, I was just excited. You won't believe what-”

“Wait, shouldn't you still be at the Café?” he asked. He'd only just sat down, hadn't even taken his notebook out yet. “Or did she actually kick you out?”

Adam blinked at him. “What do you mean? I must have been there for at least thirty minutes. Forty-five at most.”

_Oh_. Quickly, Aaron brushed it off, ignoring the small pit of worry in his belly. This wasn't the first time in the past two years that time had escaped him.

“What were you so excited about then?”

Sporting a wolf-like grin, Adam explained, “She's invited me to a party this weekend. Well, I say invited, but it was more along the lines of her mentioning that she wouldn't hate seeing me there.”

“And I assume you want me to come with you?” Aaron asked, frowning.

Suddenly, his friend looked sheepish. “I – uh,” he sniffed, “sort of need you to get in.”

“ _Me_?” he blanched. “Why?”

“It's an English thing, apparently. She said her brother's up for some writer's award and she's going to support him,” he said. “And I may have mentioned that my best friend takes Literature.”

He let out a groan, but Adam seemed insistent. “ _Please_ , mate, I'll do anything you want me to. I'll stop waking you up in the morning!”

“You'll do that anyway in the summer.”

“Then I'll-” he stopped, pouting like a child. “I'll let you buy and consume however much alcohol you want in the summer without telling Chas.”

Aaron raised an eyebrow. It was probably the best Adam could bargain with him, really. Unless - “I want you to stop asking me how I'm feeling everyday, too. And mentioning anything to do with... all of that.”

“Only for the summer?” he asked, looking conflicted.

It wasn't enough, but it would have to do. “Sure, as long as you do it.”

“Then it's a deal!” He drew him into a hug, squeezing tightly. Aaron would've been lying if he said the public display of affection didn't make him cringe internally.

As they pulled apart, Aaron noticed that a crowd of people were gathering in a pub down the street. The same soon started happening in a nearby Café, then in the American-style restaurant.

Adam furrowed his eyebrows. “What do you reckon all that's about? The footballs not started yet, has it?”

Aaron knew. It felt now like he had been watching a countdown all day, and now he was down to the last second; waiting for something life changing to happen.

“They must've dropped the bomb.”

The first time Aaron got into trouble with the police, he was eight years old. He'd only tried to steal a chocolate bar, but with the post-war rations it could've landed him a lot more trouble if his Father hadn't convinced them not to give him an official warning.

If only.

The second time, his first official time, was when he was ten. He'd punched a boy in his class so hard he'd broken his nose, and the kid's Mother had gone ballistic; threatening all sorts. But obviously the police weren't going to arrest a ten year old over a school ground dispute. Not this time, anyway.

Because when Aaron was fourteen, he was caught with Cocaine in school. It had been stupid, really, he hadn't even taken any (which is what saved him, in the end) and he'd only taken it off a boy in the year above because he'd told him it was okay, since it was legal in the States. But he'd been caught, and he'd spent a night in a prison cell, but he would've regretted it a whole lot more if it hadn't been his Mother picking him up the next morning, taking him to live with her.

The last time was when he was nineteen. But you can already guess what that had been about.

“This is already a mistake.”

The party was being held in this grand hotel about a half hour away from the main campus, where the ceiling had Angels painted on it and the waiters were dressed better than he was. An event like this would have sent him running three years ago, when he didn't know how to pronounce his T's properly or stand in a way that hid the fact that his suit was rented. Luckily, he had had a lot of practise since then.

But that didn't mean he was going to enjoy this.

“Relax, will you,” Adam said, the two of them walking into the room together. For a moment, Aaron worried what people might say about two men walking in together, but calmed himself with a shake of the head. There was no way anyone would ever suspect that of Adam. “I promise we won't have to stay all night, just long enough for me to talk to Victoria. Surely you can use this as time to speak to your Professors or do something else that's useful.”

Aaron hummed. He'd spotted his lecturer as soon as they'd arrived, standing at the far side of the room shaking hands with men that Aaron didn't recognise. He'd rather lick a rat's arse than talk to him.

“I think I'll stick with you,” he said. “Keep you out of trouble.”

Adam scoffed, but his eyes were too busy sweeping the room for him to make a comment. Aaron looked too, searching the crowd for the woman they were here for.

It was Aaron who found her. “There, look,” he pointed towards the right side of the room, where she was taking two Champagne flutes from a waiter. “That is her, isn't it?” He had only met her once, after all.

“That's her,” he said, his voice doing that wistful thing again. “Do you think – should I talk to her now, or wait until later?”

“What, for when she's had something to drink?” Aaron joked, watching her walk across the room.

“I was thinking more for when she's alone.” _Ah, yes._ Two Champagne flutes. “Maybe you could scope her brother out and distract him. He's most likely in your course.”

Aaron was about to explain that that would do them more harm than good when Victoria walked and walked and walked and walked,

And handed the other Champagne flute to the man from the park.

Aaron could only stand there. He thought that maybe his mouth had fallen open, but he couldn't tell, couldn't feel it. He knew that Adam was still talking, though, could hear bits about first dates and favourite flowers. Apart from that he was almost stuck to the floor, a stick in the mud.

“-and that's when you and Robert-”

“R-Robert?” he practically gasped, finding his voice; feeling like he hadn't drank in a million years. “That's the brothers name?”

“Yeah, Robert Sugden. Some up and coming poet, apparently. Victoria said his first poetry collection is predicted to go to number one in the bestsellers list.”

That information only served to make him feel worse, the white hot fuel of anger starting to make it's way through his veins. “Robert,” he whispered, just to see what it felt like in his mouth. And how good it felt, how right, only made him angrier.

Suddenly, a man approached Robert and Victoria, giving Robert a friendly slap on the back that Aaron couldn't help but notice made Robert uncomfortable. But there was something about him, something familiar that he couldn't quite put his finger on.

“Do you know who that man is?” he asked Adam.

“Obviously that's Lawrence White,” he said. When Aaron looked at him blankly, he added, “I've read up on him for Economics. He's a business owner – owns half of the British Empire, really. He donates to Cambridge since his daughters are both here, so he's always going to these sorts of things.”

Aaron looked back at them. Robert seemed to be pretending to like him now, smiling at him like Macmillan did in his speeches. “That doesn't explain why they're so chummy with him.”

Adam gave him an odd look, but said, “Well, according to Victoria he's engaged to one of them – his daughters, that is. He's probably given him an in on a publishing company he owns, lucky bastard.”

_Bastard, indeed_.

Of course he would be engaged, and to a woman that was rich and successful and probably beautiful, too.

It felt like a million little people were running around his body, making him frustrated and agitated as all at once they tried to force him to _move._

So he did.

“Aaron?” Adam asked as he started stepping forward. “What are you doing?”

He didn't answer. Couldn't. The anger inside him was building into something he hadn't felt in years, propelling his legs forward a mile a minute. And later he'd realise again that he didn't know _why_ this was happening, _why_ he was so bothered. But in that moment he was in no mind for realisations.

For a split second, Robert turned round to look at him. Aaron was aware enough to see the flicker or recollection in his eyes, of remembrance, but not aware enough to stop himself from what he did next.

Because, in another split second, Aaron lunged forward and took a large bite out of Robert's cheek.


	2. Stanza 2, part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aaron and Robert make a deal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um.... hi???  
> Is this chapter half the length of my plan? Yes.  
> Does this mean that the chapter length for this is now an ugly 7, instead of a beautiful 6? Also yes.  
> Have I uploaded this today because I feel guilty and also hate everything written here and just want to let it go? Indeed I have.  
> Thank you so much for being so patient.

Everything happened so quickly.

In blurred movements, people rushed around them, some grabbing Robert and some grabbing himself; hauling them to opposite ends of the room.

Then there were even more of them, the people, screaming at him, crowding against him, holding him down like Paddy used to tell him to do when someone brought in a rabid dog. The loudest of them all was Victoria, or at least he thought it might have been, asking if he was insane in a rushed voice as the mass of strangers held her back.

But against her voice, a man gave the command to call the police. And all Aaron could do was allow it to happen. It was as if someone had pulled a plug out inside of him, shutting him down, so that the only sense he had left was the taste of Robert's blood in his mouth.

It felt like he was being consumed.

And drowning. It felt like he was drowning.

Three years ago, Aaron would've told you that he had barely set foot in a hospital in his life. Not due to lack of injury – he'd been beaten and battered thousands of times – but because Aaron had always been good at hiding injuries, hiding _feelings,_ so it had never occurred to anyone at any point that he might need to go to one (and it wasn't as if a hospital visit was something they could've easily afforded; even if the creation of the NHS did nothing to encourage him to book an appointment). Of course, the consequences of that included a finger on his left hand that had started to grow in a funny angle and a weird indent on both his knees, but nothing that Aaron had believed he couldn't handle. Believed that a _man_ couldn't handle.

In hindsight, that attitude may have been a mistake. Sometimes Aaron tried to go back and track all of the things that had led up to the events of his first year of University, and every time he did he was led back to all of the cuts and bruises and broken bones and black eyes, like bread crumbs on a forest floor. Sometimes, when he was drunk enough or sad enough or didn't care enough, he wondered if just one hospital visit then would have spared him later.

Because two years ago Aaron could've told you at least one thing about half the doctors and nurses in his ward. He wasn't particularly chatty, but his quietness had always seemed to be more of an invitation to proceed than a warning to stay back, and his patient status had never changed that, even when he was eventually… _moved_ elsewhere. Then as the people became familiar, so did the walls, and the food, and the routine. Until, suddenly, hospitals weren't such an unknown concept anymore.

Which was probably why Aaron now felt so out of place sitting, for the first time in two years, in the hospital waiting room and _not_ the hospital bed.

It might have also had something to do with the fact that Aaron didn't have a clue _why_ he was there. Or believe he should be, even. He'd asked the police officers – two fat, ugly looking men, who were sat on either side of him – if they were sure this was right three times already: once when they'd opened his holding cell door, again when they'd assured him that Mr. Sugden (the _wanker_ ) hadn't clarified if he was pressing charges, and a final time when they'd ushered him into the back of a police car, telling him only that he was being taken to the local hospital.

And that Mr. Sugden had requested to see him.

They'd only been waiting for ten minutes, but Aaron had spent a good hour in that holding cell; an hour that the man had spent being seen to. The curiosity – and then _fear_ – of what they could be doing to him as each second passed drove needles of anxiety through his skin, making him shuffle his feet and run his hands through the gel in his hair. Surely he hadn't bitten him _that_ hard. He'd have known if he had, would've felt if he'd swallowed skin.

But despite trying to reassure himself he couldn't help but press a hand faintly against his stomach, as if he could feel the other man's cells breaking down inside his body by doing so. Mr. Sugden ( _Robert_ ) hadn't pressed charges yet, but he still could. It could be what the man was plotting to do; have him driven all the way over here just so he could look Aaron in the eye and announce he'd be prosecuting him. And the thought of that terrified him.

“Mr. Dingle?” a nurse called, stopping dead as she rounded the corner into the waiting room and spotted the police officers. She must've been told, Aaron thought, because she quickly fixed herself, swallowing and putting her hands in her dress-pockets. “I can take you to see him now, if you'd please follow me.” She said it as if Aaron _wanted_ to see him, as if half of him wasn't trying to convince the rest of him to make a break for it.

That half of him also wanted to scoff in her face, but the steady hands the officers placed on his arms told him that that wouldn't help his situation at all. So instead he stood with them and sombrely followed her down the brightly lit hallways, only half paying attention to the bustle and activity around him. The noise almost allowed him to forget that it was closer to midnight than eleven – something that Aaron had definitely _not_ missed about his frequent hospital visits. It was always so hard to sleep at night.

Aaron spotted him before the nurse even so much as had a chance to stop walking. He – Mr. Sugden – had left his door open, and Aaron could only stare, mouth agape like a fish, as he sat on the bed; his blond hair giving him away despite his face being covered by the hand mirror he was holding, clearly examining his face. He felt a sudden rush of _something_ in his stomach at not being able to see him clearly, something that the heat in his neck and the stutter in his heart told him had nothing to do with wanting to see his injuries

And just like that, the seeds of disdain began to replant themselves.

The nurse turned round to him, opened her mouth then closed it again as her eyes darted back and forth between the two officers. “I'll just leave you to it,” she said eventually, seeming to want to excuse herself from this as quickly as possible. Despite this being a city, Aaron didn't suppose they had many 'dangerous individuals' come in very often. She would probably leave here today and relay the whole ordeal to her friends over a glass of something alcoholic.

Aaron imagined writing a poem about birds chirping and squealing at one another for hours, with a stanza focused on each high-pitched _squawk_.

After the nurse had scurried off, the officers merely grunted at him to go inside; making it clear that they had no intention of going inside the room with him. Aaron realised with horrifying clarity that, despite the fact that the officers would clearly be keeping an eye on them, this was the first time the two of them would be alone in a room together. The fact shouldn't have _mattered_ , they'd already met one another, already spoken to one another – he'd _bitten_ the man for Christ's sake – and yet it seemed to matter more than he could physically explain.

If he had been angry before, then he was raging now.

Mr. Sugden didn't so much as look up as Aaron walked up to him, even though he'd made a gentle knock on the door. He simply kept staring into the mirror, occasionally using his spare hand to touch at the cheek that Aaron still couldn't see. If the man had gone on in silence another second longer then Aaron was sure he would've done something (another thing, really) that he regretted, but his growing irritation was halted by-

“Stitches.”

Aaron frowned.

“Stitches,” he said again. “Six of them, to be exact.” Mr. Sugden chose now to look up, dropping the mirror onto the bed and finally letting Aaron have a look at his face. “As I'm sure your main concern at the minute is how extensive the damage is.”

It hadn't been, actually, but Aaron was more preoccupied with the large, white bandage stuck to his left cheek to make any kind of witty remark.

“Took a long time for only six stitches,” he said instead, his tongue feeling like a dead weight in his mouth. _God_ , how Aaron hated him.

The side of Mr. Sugden's mouth twitched into something resembling a smile, but his eye's darted quickly towards the door; the two officers in clear view.

“Think I'm gonna do it again?” Aaron couldn't help himself from asking. “Try and make six stitches twelve?”

Robert ( _Mr. Sugden_ ) scoffed. “Do you really believe that you're in any place to try and antagonise me?”

Honestly, _yes_ he believed he was. Aaron wanted to say exactly that, that after over a week of anger and frustration and, frankly, self-hatred the least he deserved was being able to antagonise. But that would've opened up a whole other bag of problems for himself. “I don't really know what to believe right now,” he offered instead.

“I could say the same thing. I've had a confusing couple of weeks, you see,” he said, voice starting to rise; anger quickly replacing whatever confusion and incredulity had been there before. “It started with a strange man in my local park, who I thought I'd been having a nice, civil conversation with, running of on me for absolutely _no_ reason at all. Then, funnily enough, it ended with the same, strange man running towards me and _biting me in the face_ – again for absolutely _no reason at all._ Do you think you could explain any of that to me?”

He knew he should. That he should get down on his knees and beg for forgiveness. But it was as if the two of them were magnets, or tied together by some greater force, because the angrier Mr. Sugden got, the angrier Aaron got in turn. “In my defence,” he spat, “it's generally known that you don't start a conversation with random men in the local park.”

Mr. Sugden just laughed, dry and strained. He ran a hand through his blond hair (which he noticed, against his own free will, was wilder looking than the last time he'd seen it) and pinched the bridge between his nose with the other, very much looking like a man who had had a long day. Aaron wondered for a moment if he'd broken him.

When he stopped and looked at Aaron again, he merely looked tired. “I can't tell if you've noticed, but there are two police men outside that door. Whether or not they come inside is up to you. Now, I am going to ask you one more time: why did you do what you did?”

Slowly, Aaron took a peak behind his shoulder at the two officers, who were currently in quiet conversation. They may have resembled the pigs his Uncle Zak kept on his farm, but Aaron didn't think he could get pass them so easily. Even if he did, what would he do then? Where could he hide that he wouldn't be found? “I don't think I can answer that,” he said truthfully. “But I am sorry. Truly. I don't... I promise I'm not normally so violent.”

It was half-hearted, and Mr. Sugden seemed to know that, but he considered it nonetheless; pressing his lips together thinly and looking Aaron over, searching for a lie. Aaron watched him do so with tightened fists and a held breath, but in the end he simply smiled. “You never did tell me what you usually write about.” Aaron couldn't see himself, but he could imagine the way his face heated up as his nostrils flared wildly, him being the one that looked like a pig this time. “Come on, police officers remember?”

Aaron shrugged, just wanting to leave. “Anything. Random things.”

Mr. Sugden's smile grew. “So I was right, then.”

He blinked at him. “What-”

“Are you free on Wednesdays? Preferably in the afternoon?”

“I-I believe so,” he stuttered out dumbly. He didn't know when or how the conversation had shifted, but it had, and it was heading somewhere he already knew he wasn't going to like.

“Good. My sister's cafe, Wednesday at three. If I'm not already at a table then you can go ahead and-”

“Hold on,” he stopped him, raising his hands in either warning or defence. “I don't understand what's happening here.”

“Didn't I make it obvious? We're going to be writing poetry, of course.”

“Together?” he blanched, that feeling of _something_ having a party inside of him.

“Sometimes. Or you'll show me whatever you've written, or I'll do the same. But yes, Aaron, we'll mostly be writing together.”

 _Aaron._ It sounded differently to every other word in the sentence; deeper, more meaningful, more _soulful_ . The sound of it, the way the _r_ ran through him, left him so momentarily dazed and light-headed that he didn't have the brain power to wonder where he'd learned his name from.

But when that moment was over and the meaning of what he was saying sunk in, it took all he had not to run; police be damned.

“And what if I don't want to?”

“That's fine,” he answered, all casual. “If you enjoy spending several months in a prison cell.”

It felt as if there were ice running through his veins. “Are you threatening me?”

“No, I'm encouraging you. I believe there's a difference. You can do what you want, I think I've made myself clear.”

Three years ago, Aaron would've told Mr. Sugden to shove his encouragement up his backside. He would've gladly paid the fine, or accepted the prison time, after taking another chunk of his skin out for good measure. Anything to prevent himself from ever seeing Mr. Sugden's obnoxiously bright, blond hair again.

But three years ago the conditions of his scholarship hadn't hung by such a loose thread, the reality of who he would be without a degree hadn't been so tangible, the fear of failure so skin deep. His heart hammered violently as a mountain of _if_ piled up in his mind: what would happen if assault was put on his record, what his mother would say if she found out, what he would become if he was sent away again.

The consequences were too dire – but the same could be said for his other option. There were worse things than prison for men like Aaron, and men like Robert could always tell; they fit too perfectly into their roles in life to not notice when something was wrong. And that was the issue, the other _if_ : if he and Robert were to meet again, he would notice that Aaron's hatred was too stubbornly placed to be natural. That Aaron's eyes were always inexplicably drawn to his lips. And if he did, he would surely tell someone.

So there was no chance on Earth that he could say yes. Yet there was also no chance in Hell that he could say no.

If he lost his scholarship, then his family could find a way to pay for one more year. If not, then he could always transfer to somewhere cheaper. He could make this work. His life did not have to be ruined by this.

But by refusing he would be failing at the one thing he'd set out to do when he'd walked into Mr. Sugden's hospital room. It would leave his apology useless. Aaron would lose whatever game that the two of them were playing.

He looked at Robert, who was already looking at him. Who had most likely been doing so the entire time that he had been lost in his own head. The anger that was burning hatefully in his chest grew with every second that passed with their eye's interlocked; green on blue.

“It was Wednesday at three, right?”

“That's right.” His grin was impossibly large, like that of a comic book villain, the white of his teeth almost blinding him. “I'll see you then. I'm looking forward to it.”

Aaron couldn't remember a time where he'd hated himself more.

Even before Aaron had ever set foot inside a lecture hall, he had hated education.

Not learning. No, he loved to learn, loved to fill himself with new things, loved the way he felt whenever he finally understood something that he hadn’t before. It was like a sudden rush to his brain; scurrying, buzzing, thrilling. And he was good at it, too – exceptional, as a teacher had once written in his report card – always at the top of the class; even _then_ , when everything had been so bleak, he had still been able to rely on his ability to learn.

He had only crossed the line between learning and being educated because he’d _had_ to. The Dingles had always been farmers (as well as gypsies, drunkards and scoundrels, as the good people of Yorkshire were sure to tell you) and that had been what everyone had assumed Aaron would be, too. So much so that he’d never been able to escape it, the ever-growing weight of expectation. When Aaron had been fifteen he’d laid in bed one night and pictured it, the future that had already been mapped out for him – living on a farm, surrounded by pigs and chickens, married to a kind-spoken woman who spent her days baking him pies and cleaning the house. Maybe that would’ve sounded pleasant to any other Dingle, but to Aaron it had sounded like nails being dragged across a chalkboard. It sounded like handcuffs locking into place.

So, he’d set himself new expectations. He’d gone to school every day, handed in every piece of homework no matter how trivial the task, taken every test despite the act of being still and silent making his skin itch. He’d practised speaking like the men on the telly until his mouth had been sore, applied to every creative writing competition he could get his hands on, spent any time he could spare learning how to tie a tie. Day in, day out, he worked so hard that he hadn’t the time to even think about whether he loved what he was doing or not. Merely _liking_ it hadn’t so much as factored into the equation he was creating for himself; all he’d known was that he’d had to get out before it was too late.

And he had. All his dedication had been rewarded with a partial scholarship to Cambridge at eighteen, the rest paid for by loans and the generosity (as well as malpractice) of the Dingles. Finally, he was free.

But throughout all of those years of work and dedication, nobody had thought to tell him that University would be different, harder, more time consuming. Nobody had told him that loving education was in the fine print of the contract that was higher education.

But that had been because there had been nobody _to_ tell him. No Dingle in Yorkshire had ever even tried to get into University, had never even thought to, so Aaron had gone through the process entirely, painstakingly alone. And he had suffered the consequences for it.

But even then, he would not have had it any other way. There were many things in life that Aaron knew, but how to accept companionship was not one of them.

It was because of this unrelenting independence that Aaron knew that, even without the already obvious issues, writing with Robert would be a disaster.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Robert: u r so sexy pls write a poem with me  
> Aaron: u r so sexy pls don't get me arrested
> 
> No direct time period or poetic references in this one (apart from the obvious reference to the foundation of the NHS in 1948), but oh boy buckle up for the amount of Plath, Hughes and 50's context (with a little bit of John Donne) in the next one

**Author's Note:**

> Poems referenced:  
> Miss Drake Proceeds to Supper by Sylvia Plath  
> Historical context:  
> The Light Programme - a popular radio station in the 50's.  
> The bomb being dropped by the British Government is the second bomb test in Operation Grapple, as part of England catching up in the nuclear arms race. The bomb in question is a hydrogen bomb.  
> Post-war rations - food rations post ww2  
> About Cocaine being legal in the states - England had harsher drug laws put into place in the 1920's, while it was still legally allowed to be used medicinally in the US  
> Macmillan refers to Harold Macmillan, the Tory PM at the time.  
> Homosexuality, of course, is illegal in 1957 UK
> 
> Plath and Hughes context: yes, Plath did take a massive bite out of Hughes' cheek when they first met. They were married four months later. We love true love.


End file.
